


Picturesque

by sansibei



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Art, Gen, Light Angst, Painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 00:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20416769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansibei/pseuds/sansibei
Summary: Shizuo discovers a side of Izaya he never knew of, and he finds himself dangerously unable to let go.





	Picturesque

There is a small, barely furnished room in Shizuo’s apartment.

Often, you could find him spending hours inside. It was a fairly small room, so there was not much space to move around. It was so cramped he couldn’t even bring a chair in and sit down, but he never cleared it out. There were no windows, no other furniture, and even then the space left was barely enough to fit him inside. Nevertheless, Shizuo cleaned the room carefully each week, making sure every item was spotless, moving them out temporarily if he had to, and polishing the shelves in case there were any splinters. Needless to say, that room received more care than any other room in his apartment. But Shizuo never complained, never once thought it to be a tedious commitment. He took one last glance around and walked out, closing the door gently behind him. Of course he had to take care of those things properly.

The room was filled with Izaya’s paintings.

* * *

_Shizuo stared at the shivering student in front of him, contemplating the truthfulness of his words._

_He didn’t think simply lending someone his homework could lead to such an undesirable situation such as this one, but the truth is that anything done in the field of view of Orihara Izaya can and will be used for his own amusement. In the end, Shizuo believed him. The bloodsucking insect nabbing his homework from the person he lent it to wasn’t anything hard to believe. Except he wasn’t present at school today - which unfortunately meant Shizuo would have to pay a pleasant little visit in order to avoid trouble with his teacher._

_The same night Shizuo found himself at Izaya’s place._

_He had kicked down the door after receiving no answer to his rings, and found Izaya in his room, snoring on his desk. He must be a heavy sleeper if he didn’t wake from the door being destroyed. Shizuo went to shake him up but stopped._

_A medium sized canvas lay on the table, a half-finished flamboyant still-life painting slashed on it. Izaya held a paintbrush loosely in his hand, his head planted right on the corner of the canvas, staining some hair with paint. Beside it was a second, smaller canvas, a painting of the same still-life he was trying to reciprocate. Shizuo’s eye followed it to the floor, which was almost covered in half-finished paintings, references, prints with post-its plastered over them, and discarded sketches._

_He was snapped back to attention when he heard rustling, and saw Izaya sleepily rubbing his eyes. “Shizu...huh?” He was awake in a split second, grabbed the nearest precision cutter and thrust it at Shizuo. The blade ate into flesh, but Shizuo did not even flinch. Then, Izaya seemed to calm down a little from his outburst enough to look him in the eye and ask, steadily but evidently shaken, “What are you doing in my apartment?”_

_“I see you...like painting,” he answered without answering, then mentally kicked himself for stating the painfully obvious. It was then that Izaya seemed to suddenly remember about what he had been doing prior to Shizuo’s intrusion, and for just a brief moment, Shizuo thought he noticed a ghostly flash of trepidation streak across his face, though he was quick to recompose himself. Was he perturbed at the thought of Shizuo destroying any of his creations?_

_“Yeah...is that unexpected?” Izaya hurried, seeming more like he was talking to himself rather than Shizuo. “I picked it up because it helped me through some hard times, is all. Don’t think I’ll give up on it...” His voice steadied as he recovered from his shock and gradually slipped back into his pleasant indulgence. Shizuo let himself be sucked into Izaya’s reverie, but then he remembered why he came._

_Even then, Shizuo found himself unable to forget the image, branded into his memory, of the enraptured look on his face._

* * *

After their schooldays, Izaya took to painting part-time in addition to his main occupation. Most of his work was left in his study. Rarely, he would submit to an exhibition with one painting or two under an alias. It was like his personal night-life of some sort, a secret indulgence he could retreat to.

He painted skyscrapers, flowing streets, lone windows, night lights, fleeting crowds, those humans he was so interested in, and anything concerning the city he poured his heart out to. He painted with thick and thin brushes, artist knives, his hands; he sketched with pencil, charcoal, pen. He made art with his whole being.

And he wasn’t worried about anyone finding out - no one would believe that an unstable, cunning informant like him would ever take part in activities so unlike his character. And so nobody who knew Orihara Izaya knew of his secret hobby.

That was what Izaya had thought. He wouldn’t mind if things were always like this.

* * *

It was strange. Since when had Shizuo ever felt any sort of interest towards art?

He always thought artists to be pretentious and incomprehensible. This situation was highly unlike him - anyone who knew would question. He himself thought it to be the biggest mystery of all. Yet here he was, a huge canvas in his hands, standing in his home at a complete loss. He had accompanied his brother to an exhibition at his request, and noticed a familiar painting there.

It was one of a still-life, and he caught himself wondering where he had seen it before.

And now, he’s wondering why he felt such a strong desire to have it, that he had Kasuka buy it for him at a considerable price. Not like his brother was any less than delighted that Shizuo seemed to be interested in something for once. He flipped the canvas over, and almost missed a thin, barely visible signature on the wood.

“iza”

* * *

Maybe he spiralled into obsession.

No, perhaps it was just an innocent interest. At least he hoped so. Well, there was no harm in a small, humble collection. He had nothing to be ashamed of, was what Shizuo thought to himself each time. There are so many people out there who are way crazier than him, surely he wouldn’t compare to them.

Nonetheless, Shizuo felt guilty for each small burst of excitement every time he added to his little pile.

He had bought his first painting on a whim, and from there it was all downhill. Izaya’s paintings held a strange whimsical vibe to them, a feeling unlike any other, an emotion he couldn’t quite place his finger on. Maybe it was because of how similar their worlds are that when he saw it in an artistic interpretation, he empathised with it. Maybe it was because of who the artist was.

His favourites were the most familiar streets and corners of Ikebukuro, and those works Izaya painted kaleidoscopic, such that everyday mundane places that he was so used to, seemed exceptionally meticulous.

Had he always been this scrupulous? Honestly, Shizuo dared not declare whether those paintings were good. He had no artistic sense, he just likes them because of the appeal, and...god, they really did kind of look beautiful. And maybe he was the only one who will ever interpret it this way.

His collection was still fairly small. He wouldn’t mind adding to it - forget that, he wouldn’t mind living paycheque to paycheque if it meant he could keep reliving this fleeting feeling.

* * *

He's really done it this time.

Izaya left Ikebukuro entirely, like he was never there. Shizuo could no longer sense his ghostly traces that once so fomented his wrath.

He gradually stopped being the topic of conversation. No more trouble stirred up because of him. His very existence seemed to reduce to evanescence.

The only thing left of him were his paintings.

Ah, those cityscapes, those familiar sights that once aroused tingly feelings of exhilaration, now looked to him none more than a reminder of every blunder he had ever made.

Even though Shinjuku was not far, even though he could just buy a train ticket and show up right at his door just like back in highschool.

Shizuo wondered how dazed he must have been to wander and wind up right in front of Izaya's old apartment. It hadn't been long since he left - there mustn't be any new tenants yet. He thought about how Izaya never changed his address all throughout school and his life after that. His office was somewhere else, but this place had always been under his name.

The door was shut tight, the curtains drawn. He remembered clearly the night he came here to retrieve his homework - there had been a light shimmering underneath the door.

* * *

_Shizuo drew in a sharp breath and stabbed his finger into the doorbell. It rung mechanically, and he waited. Then he pressed it again. Then he waited._

_Nothing. But there was clearly a light under the door. Was the flea pretending no one was home?_

_Well, no matter. He wasn't about to get in more trouble with his teachers just because Izaya thought it was funny. He raised his foot._

* * *

Maybe if he pressed the doorbell now, waited for no answer, pressed it again and broke down the door, he would still find Izaya sleeping soundly on his desk, his hand holding a paintbrush loosely, his face planted right on the corner of the canvas, the paint staining his hair, then he would see the half-finished still-life he was working on, then Izaya would wake up and stab him with a precision cutter…

But there was no light beneath the door.

Shizuo caught something in his peripheral vision while eyeing the crack. His gaze shifted to the right - well, how careless of Izaya. It seems like he had forgotten to take out the trash right before he abandoned his place. And by goodness, that is one huge trash bag...what could be so bulky?

He opened it curiously, not thinking about how stupid he might look, as if the trash bag was a treasure chest instead.

And it was, in a way. Only to Shizuo.

It was filled with small canvases with the same meticulous splashes of colour that Izaya had loved to create.

* * *

Shizuo had never felt as uneasy as he did now. Not once when he faced deadly enemies. Never in his life, in fact. So why now?

More importantly, why did he wait a few years before paying a visit to Shinjuku, to finally go see Izaya? And what was he doing lugging a still-life painting there?

It was pointless. It was stupid, he chided himself. Was he expecting somebody like Izaya to weep tears of joy upon seeing his good old archenemy? He was being too sentimental. Especially for a tough person such as himself. Izaya would eye him with scorn, ask him what he wanted, then kick him out.

But as hard as he tried to discourage himself, he still stepped onto the train. Whatever. He was going to see Izaya, normally, as though he had never crippled him, as though that fateful night didn't happen. And if he doesn't exactly get the warmest welcome, that was fine too.

* * *

"What are you doing in my office?"  
_ What are you doing in my apartment?_

For once, Shizuo felt what a normal human being felt on a daily basis. Awkward, unsure, desperately hoping he wouldn't trip up. He was at a loss, somehow, and the only thing he could think of doing was show him his artwork.

Shizuo's heart thumped one beat harder as he stared intensely at Izaya, hoping it was a look of bewilderment that he caught briefly flashing across his face. But it passed quickly, all too soon, and Izaya eyes iced over once more to stare at his old acquaintance.

"That was the first painting I ever finished, among all the half-paintings I've done. That time, I remember it. That which you hold now wasn't going to be, till you barged in. I finished a painting for the first time that night…” Izaya murmured, an incomprehensible expression on his face. He seemed to gaze straight past Shizuo.

“Ahem...are you...do you still paint? Do you still exhibit?” Shizuo choked out his words with strange difficulty, snapping Izaya back to reality. And all of a sudden he realised he was hoping.

Hoping for him to say yes, hoping his art hadn’t died. Hoping against hope that he could at least, just once, see those hands grip a paintbrush and dance the choreography of creation across a snowy textured dance floor, and leave a trail of complexity. He wondered what it was like to create, not destroy like he does.

Izaya contemplated this question, seemingly wondering if he should be frank or fake. He heaved a sigh, perhaps realising the lack of necessity to tell pretty lies to Shizuo of all people.

“No. I grew out of it. That was a pretty wild phase I’d say, I don’t even know what I was thinking back then, being so obsessed over something like that.”

And here Shizuo was thinking a “no” would be the worst answer he could get. Izaya managed to defy his expectations by opening a wound with his first “no” and then sprinkling salt right into it. But after reckoning, he thought it made sense. As someone who only does the wildest experiments, would Izaya stay content with only one constant time-killer that was painting?

No.

And that was the answer he got.

Seemingly aware of Shizuo’s downcast mood, Izaya continued casually, “but you can have the rest of my paintings I’ve not sold to anyone. They’ll just sit there collecting dust anyway.”

Well, perhaps that was the best he would get, whether he liked it or not.

* * *

It took a few days to move all the paintings from Shinjuku back to Ikebukuro. He could have paid people to do it, but the truth was he wasn’t the wealthiest person right now. Shizuo sat back and heaved a tired sigh - all the travelling to and fro left him oddly drained. His usual stamina and strength dulled, and he just wanted to collapse and escape from a harsh reality.

But life had to go on. So he recollected himself, and thought to store the canvases somewhere. It wouldn’t do for them to just lie around in the living room taking up space.

So he cleared out a small, dusty room. He gave it a thorough cleaning and moved all his paintings there. He surveyed his new space, and thought it beautiful. But it was a sad, withering beauty. Perhaps he wasn’t much different.

He never again went out of his way to meet or contact Izaya. And nor did the latter. Occasionally they would bump into each other when one had business in the other’s turf, but a conversation never held for long. Shizuo knew that Izaya had ceased to be the creator he so admired, and hence he didn’t hold hope. He simply kept revisiting his collection, and reliving that minute feeling.

Ah, maybe he spiralled into obsession after all.

Looking at the colourful creations lining the walls of his happy place, he felt a sharp stinging in his eyes.


End file.
